


Proof and Pudding

by terma_archivist



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Homoeroticism, Language, M/M, No Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2002-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Smut. 'Nuff said.
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Collections: TER/MA





	Proof and Pudding

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> Acknowledgements: This is just a teensy little PWP to welcome Bone back into the fold of real life. Welcome back, Sunbeam! Author's Notes: We're firmly back in pop-tart land, here. Written in schmoop-a-rama, this is a 100% angst-free zone. Feels funny. Ack! Feedback: and whining and creative flames are welcome.

Go to notes and disclaimers 

  
**Proof and Pudding  
by Mairead Triste**

  
"You're _wrong_ , man. Totally off. Like... complete absence of rightness—that's you. _Boy_ , are you wrong—" 

"Sandburg," Jim looked up briefly from Blair's stomach, where he was busy using his tongue to determine which dribbles of semen were Blair's and which weren't. "You're protesting too much, here. You know that, right?" 

"Oooh—" This didn't seem to be so much a response to his words as it was that he'd just discovered a rather generous deposit that ran from Blair's navel down to his balls. "That doesn't... holy hell... matter... Jim—Jesusthatfeels _good_... you're still... wow... _wrong_." 

"Right," Jim murmured, although it didn't sound like 'right'. After one last broad lick of the tender, satiny skin in the crease of Blair's thigh, he pulled back. "Well," he sighed, resigned, "I suppose I'd better stop distracting you so we can thrash this out—we don't have that much time, you know; and I'd hate to go to that... _thing_ thinking that we hadn't settled our differences—" 

"Ohhh _no_ you don't," Blair interrupted. Jim's hearing cut out almost entirely as warm, strong thighs closed around his head, and he obeyed the silent demand to roll over—it was either that or get his neck snapped; and, as happy as he was in the moment, this wasn't exactly the way he wanted to be remembered. 

As soon as Jim was squarely on his back, Blair pressed two solid, heavy knees into his biceps and stopped threatening him with imminent death. Pinned, there really wasn't much for Jim's hands to do except analyze the fur on Blair's calves (lots); but it didn't escape his notice that at some point during the whole licking/rolling-around/arguing process, Blair had gotten hard again. He could deal with that. 

Jim reflected obliquely on the wonderful resiliency of youth as the smooth, hot length of Blair's cock slid into his mouth—he had to do some momentary shifting to get his head tilted back at the right angle, but after that it was simply perfection. Blair went deep, for the first time with no hesitation, no testing of limits; just deep and hard and fast in and out of his mouth, groaning lushly; and Jim shuddered, utterly unable to control his own response, his own burning nerves. 

Maybe this _was_ the way he wanted to be remembered. 

* * *

"You're still wrong, you know." 

Jim couldn't help but smile. He glanced away from the road long enough to get an impression of Blair—elegant, and very incongruous wearing a tux while lounging in the passenger seat of the truck. Blair's eyes still had that sleepy, satisfied look that Jim had come to treasure; ever since two weeks ago when he'd first gotten to put it there. He loved that look—it made him feel inordinately pleased with everything. 

Of course, that was no reason to give in. "No I'm not." 

"You _are_." 

"Look, Chief; usually I'll let you win these stupid arguments just because my ears can't take it anymore, but this time you're out of your league, okay?" It was easy to sound indulgent—at least, it was right now. 

"No way," Blair insisted. From the corner of his eye Jim saw the tight ponytail whip back and forth in negation. "I'm all for keeping the peace, you know; but I just can't let you live your whole life suffering under this... _delusion_." 

Jim scoffed, and flipped his signal as he steered the truck towards the offramp. "Delusion? You sure about that, Sandburg?" 

"Yup. Just face it, man—there's no _way_ you're kinkier than I am." Blair sounded as if the very idea was somehow an offense against nature. 

Jim chuckled, wondering if maybe he should self-park when they got to the Grand Ambassador Hotel, just so he could have the pleasure of making out with Blair in the parking lot. Just lean him up against the truck and dry-hump him until he looked considerably less elegant. 

That might not be _kinky_ , per se; but it would certainly be worthwhile. 

* * *

"Oh... you bastard... bastard..." 

Jim laughed softly, and licked Blair's ear; so delightfully exposed when his hair was pulled back like this. He had Blair's ass pressed firmly against the side of the truck, hips filling his hands to perfection, and it was only too easy to lean in and then pull away over and over; losing track of himself and everything else outside of this heat, this tease. 

"Don't you know it," he whispered, and then slipped close again; absolutely heavy with the overwhelming knowledge that he could do it—he could make Blair come right here and now if he wanted to. Behind his closed eyes, brilliant images flashed into utter clarity—biting down on the peak of a nipple through the fabric of a carefully starched shirt, grabbing Blair's ass and pulling hard to get tucked between those warm, shaking thighs. He could do it—just a little slide and grind and pressure and Blair would lose it, he knew; it would all be over. It would be easy. 

_Everything_ about doing this with Blair had been easy—easy, and filled with some kind of extraordinary splendor that he didn't even have a word for. The ease of it didn't even scare him—that in itself would have been fairly terrifying, if he hadn't been far too busy to pay proper attention to it. 

After all, why be terrified, when he could do _this_ instead? 

Now, if only he had the time to enjoy it... 

* * *

"What are you worried about, Jim?" Blair asked him later as they walked through the lobby doors; "I mean, I know you don't like this kind of thing; but you just went from sexy to surly so fast I think I've got whiplash." He blinked, as if considering something. "Of course, surly _is_ sexy on you. I think that's my problem—it wouldn't have taken me ten minutes to pull myself together afterwards if you hadn't been... anybody ever tell you you're a total pricktease, Jim?" 

Not for the first time, Jim wished Blair would pick a topic and stick with it. "You asked for it," he responded dryly; "with all your 'kinkier-than-thou' crap. And I'm not _worried_ , it's just—it's the Policemen's Charity Ball, Chief. Do you know what that means?" 

"No," Blair said loftily, "since this is the first time you've ever seen fit to bring me along, I _don't_ know what that means. I know I'm, like, _totally_ appalled that I had to let you suck my dick in order to get invited—" 

"Sandburg!" He was actually scandalized for a moment, before he grasped the fact that Blair had just successfully yanked his chain. Again. He grimaced. The little bastard was _good_ at it, of course. Along with a bunch of other, more rewarding things. And obviously, from the look of that grin, he knew it. 

Jim figured he'd probably gotten off lightly, after leaving Blair high-and-dry and suffering back at the truck. He sighed. "The key word here, my friend; is 'charity'. This is a bunch of old-money, high-society types, mostly women, mostly _grandmothers_ , for God's sake; who all seem to have this weird I-wanna-dance-with-a- _cop_ fetish—" 

Blair was off and running. Off and _snorting_ , actually; and Jim could only be grateful that they hadn't entered the ballroom yet. "It's not funny, goddamnit," Jim muttered. "They're really _strange_ , Sandburg; and last year I had to get Simon to cut in before I could get General Bittaker's wife's hands off my _ass_..." 

Blair stopped walking altogether and just leaned against the flocked hallway wallpaper, hiccuping with laughter. Jim saw a rosy glow spreading over his cheeks, and was helplessly drawn back in his mind to the sight/smell/sound of Blair when he was just _that_ close to coming—flushed and arching; crying out so loud that it hurt his ears but in a _good_ way, very good—Blair was very, very good. 

He shivered. Blair hadn't been the only one left suffering—despite all the 'rolling around' that had gone on just before they got ready to leave, despite the fact that his mind was quite stern in insisting that he was forty years old—his body didn't seem to be the least interested in the facts. His body was only interested in Blair. Extremely interested. 

Jim looked away, forced his thoughts onto more neutral topics, and turned down sensation until he was almost completely numb—the _last_ thing he needed right now was to get stuck with a raging hard-on right before he had to perform his civic duty of waltzing the Mayor's wife around. 

He didn't say anything about it. There was no way he wanted _that_ idea anywhere near Blair's gorgeous, dangerous mind. 

* * *

Dinner was an ordeal—it hadn't even occurred to Jim, when he'd asked Blair to go with him, that the appearance of his own datelessness, when combined with Blair's innate and inescapable appeal, would cause every elderly woman in the vicinity to descend upon the pair of them like a school of well-bred, Shalimar-scented sharks. Throughout the evening, as he ate his porterhouse (the steak was only mediocre, but Blair's look of horror was a prizewinner), as he shifted his legs left, right, forward and back (Blair would _not_ stop wriggling sock-covered toes up his pantsleg); he was utterly barraged by well-meaning and yet somehow unbearably suggestive attention from several pillars of society. 

Of course, he wasn't _quite_ as swamped as he'd been last year, when Simon had stuck him at one of the head tables—this year, at least, he was tucked away in a corner, very far from the stage, the occasional feedback whine from the speakers, and the _dance floor_. However, the advantage of being out of the limelight was seriously offset by the fact that, of the other six people at the table besides them, five were perfect examples of the breed of woman that Jim had been trying to warn Blair about. The only thing Jim found to be thankful for was that Blair's cheeks were so pinchable; his own were left unmolested. 

Jim was sure; peacefully, mellowly sure, that Simon had a hand in the table-assignment process. He was equally sure, satisfactorily sure, that Simon was going to be on the receiving end of some serious nastiness, come Monday. 

Their sixth tablemate was a venerable gentleman whose name Jim never could quite translate; a guy who'd been Chief of Police sometime so long ago you'd think they'd had to chase down criminals with rocks in his day. He spent most of the meal mumbling speculations about whether Blair was a boy or a girl. 

And then, finally; after Jim's jaw ached from too much smiling, and his body tingled from too much awareness of Blair, he got a respite. Dessert was served, the speeches commenced; and everybody drifted away—presumably to go improve the social tone of the bathrooms. Jim sighed with relief, and divided the last of their table's wine between his and Blair's glasses—a furtive action, but one he figured he could get away with. 

"This is _so_ not chocolate mousse." 

Blair looked like a kid who'd received athletic socks for his birthday. Jim watched him poke wistfully at his dessert dish with a spoon, maybe testing a hypothesis that the mousse improved at lower levels. The fearless scientist at work. Jim had to smile. "No?" 

Blair turned to him. "No. This is _pudding_ with a hard-on." 

Jim snickered, but his humor died away unnoticed when Blair dropped the spoon, leaned his head in his hand and gave Jim that half-lidded, I-know-what-I-want-in- _my_ -doggie-bag look. 

"I don't _want_ pudding with a hard-on," Blair said softly, silkily. "I want _you_ with a hard-on. Right now. Do you have a hard-on, Jim?" 

Everything stopped. Well, not _everything_ —he continued to watch Blair being sexy (something he was anyway, but when he _tried_ , when he _went for it_ , oh Jesus); he continued to hear Blair's question echo through him again and again, caroming off things inside like a pinball racking up points. Tilt. Definite tilt. 

Jim pressed his napkin to his mouth to stifle the sudden noises that wanted to escape, and took a deep breath. The answer to Blair's question was becoming 'yes' so rapidly that it was making him dizzy. "Don't start this shit with me, Sandburg." One of the only weapons he had left in his anti-Blair arsenal was the fact that, when desperate, he sounded _exactly_ like he did when he was ticked off. He was very grateful for it at the moment. "We're in a _public place_ , here—" 

"Yeah. We are. Are you telling me that's too _kinky_ for you?" Blair asked him archly, and the dull horror of realizing just how fucking _trapped_ he was seemed like nothing in comparison to the hot, sudden cramp of desire that gripped him down low, down where he'd been living for the last two weeks. 

"Uh..." constituted the sum of his expostulation. He supposed he should be proud he managed that much. 

Blair smiled at him: dark, evil, nasty and so fucking _sweet_ —a confection of promise, illicit and tantalizing. Jim shivered. His own pulse was tangible—hell, it was _shaking_ him; pounding through him and holding him to his chair as if he'd been spiked to it. He didn't move a single muscle as Blair reached up behind his own neck, pulled his hair tie free, and shook his head. 

Jim swallowed somehow with a perfectly dry throat. Blair looked... he looked just like he did whenever Jim finished with him—a gorgeous mess; tangled and well-used and lewd. The incongruity of all that messy hair above the neat tuxedo did _something_ to him, hit some kind of internal button whose presence he'd never even suspected. He suddenly felt very vulnerable, very much at the mercy of his own desires, at the mercy of Blair's. 

And boy, wasn't _that_ a turn-on? His breathing stuttered—even the air moving in and out of his body seemed weirdly sensual. 

"You're going to pay for what you did to me out by the truck, Jim." 

Oh—like he wasn't paying already? The speeches couldn't last forever; pretty soon now the band would start up and he'd have to make good on the dancing part of the evening—and he was so fucking hard he was surprised it wasn't lifting up the table. "Sandburg," he croaked, "Blair..." 

"Don't 'Blair' me, man." Menacing. Soft. Irresistible. "Don't you even _think_ you can 'Blair' your way out of this one. I'm not proud—I'll duck right under this table and blow you..." 

There were more words, but Jim was incapable of hearing them because his entire being was swamped by the image of Blair doing just that; hidden by the long tablecloth and kneeling between his spread thighs and going down on him with that delicate but relentless style he had—that gentle kind of greediness that utterly unhinged him after the first four seconds or so. He groaned helplessly, and pressed his napkin to his mouth again. Another deep breath, and he let the napkin fall away. "Bathroom," he husked. "Cloakroom. _Something_ —your choice—go now—I'll follow—" 

Blair tsked, and shook his head. "Like I would let you off that easily." Another wicked smile. "Oh no. We're staying _right here_ , Jim—" 

Jim looked around wildly. There were a few people moving quietly through the room, but most of them were at their tables watching the speeches, nodding or smiling or frowning. The old Chief of Police had come back, true enough; but right now he was perched arthritically on a chair near the front of the room, mumbling something about 'lack of respect' to the current Chief. "Jesus _Christ_ , Sandburg—" Jim whispered imploringly; "Mrs. Meissner and the rest of the sharks are going to be back any _second_ —don't... you can't... don't—" 

"Mmm..." Blair interrupted. It could have been agreement, but it sounded like pleasure. It zinged through Jim like sudden summer lightning, tingling in his groin and nipples and _God_ he hated this and loved it—he was so _vulnerable_ to this; he'd let Blair in like this, because to not do it would be madness. And here it was, madness anyway, doom told by the hot light in Blair's blue eyes. "Any second," Blair echoed, in the exact same tone he might use to say 'bend over, Jim'. "No time to waste, then." 

Jim half-expected to see Blair disappear under the table, and he was already weighing the decision of whether to jump up and dash for the bathroom or just slide down in his chair and let the good times roll; but Blair didn't. Jim watched, paralyzed, while Blair shifted in his seat; and then the deep, amplified voice of the good ol' boy currently up at the podium and the hushed murmurs of the rest of the room were entirely obliterated by the soft-meshed sound of Blair's... zipper... coming... un... done. 

"I—I—ah—" whatever it was he'd been about to say, it was long gone. Something about how there was a difference between 'kinky' and 'stupid'... but he couldn't really back up that claim now, could he? He could only stare, openmouthed, while Blair leaned back and gasped, his hand barely moving under cover of the tablecloth. 

"Oh yeah," Blair whispered, "Jim, _look_ at me—watch me—watch me do this..." and then through the wine and mousse/pudding and lingering traces of Shalimar Jim could _smell_ him; that raw and elemental smell that he could never seem to get enough of, that smell that sent messages to every single part of his body that it was time to find the closest available piece of Blair and start rubbing against it. His hips squirmed helplessly. 

"Blair _don't_ ," he murmured, urgent; too urgent to demand, too urgent to offer up all the rational reasons why _not_ , all he could do was plead. He tried to, anyway, but the words stuck in his throat because he could hear and smell and sense everything Blair was doing to himself under the table, hidden from view only by one fine layer of linen—it was all there; just right there. 

Jim had a moment of abject, shivery mortification when he realized that the harsh, too-loud panting sounds he heard were coming from himself, not from Blair. He pressed his lips together tightly, but that didn't help at all with his body's increased demand for air. His cock _hurt_ —hard and hot and strangling in his pants, and there was nothing he could do about it—oh sure, _Blair_ could happily sit here in the middle of the fucking _Policemen's Ball_ and jerk off and make a total slut of himself; but _he_ couldn't... couldn't... he couldn't remember ever seeing anything hotter than this, right here; Blair's head leaning back and a sense of his legs stretched out beneath the table as he really started to get into it. 

Blair never looked away from him, and every flicker, every tic of pleasure on his face caused a deep, reflexive _pulling_ sensation in his groin that had him curled over the table, fists clenched tight into the tablecloth to stop himself from... from doing _anything_. Blair had started to sweat a little, and Jim watched one clear drop trickle from Blair's forehead into the dampening hair at his temple; and right then he almost lost it, almost darted forward to follow the path of it with his tongue. He clenched his fists tighter, and the table rattled a little. Blair groaned quietly. 

"Oh _fuck_ , Jim—" the voice was quiet, almost inaudible; but Jim heard it just fine—Jim's ears burned with it. "You look... you look _good_ like that. You're shaking—you must... ahh... you must want me pretty badly—are you gonna lose it, Jim? You gonna lose control and maybe put me face down on this table and... God, you could, you know... I'd... I'd let you..." 

At that point, the entire Ladies' Auxiliary could have sat down at the table and demanded sherry, and Jim wouldn't have known it. He was rigid, straining; on fire. A cadence marched in him—Blair's breath Blair's heart Blair's hands... Blair's hands... Blair's hands _on_ himself, stroking; Blair was biting hard into his bottom lip and shivering a little and rocking back in his chair rhythmically, going with it, one long slow stretch of spine and then Blair's thigh pressed against his and it was _shaking_ , just like he was himself. 

"Really soon, now;" still quiet but he was so tuned in that it seemed nerve-shatteringly loud. "Just for you—what you do to me—want you bad..." and then everything seemed to slow down and speed up at the same time as Blair finally closed his eyes for a moment and let his head fall back. The rhythm became a blur, shifting; the slide and pound and throb of now/now/now and Jim grabbed _fast_ for his napkin, with only desperation to give him the necessary speed and coordination to find his zipper (never _mind_ the button where's the fucking _zipper_ ) because he hadn't laid a finger on Blair or himself but that was just too bad and he was going to come anyway—all over his pants if he didn't... _God_... tug the head of his monster erection out through the hole and get that napkin down there and... 

"Coming— _fuck_ —right now—now now now— _Jim_!" And Jim _knew_ that last word had been too loud and that there were people peering towards their table in the dim corner, but for the life of him he could not bring himself to _care_. Not right now. Right now he had one hand tight over Blair's mouth to keep him quiet, and the other under the table, swaddling an expensive linen napkin around his own cock—spurting, coming—everything _perfect_ for one semi-silent second of hot grunting helpless animal explosion. And it should have been a relief, but watching Blair arch and tremble and come was getting him hot all over again; hunger renewed in the very moment that it was sated. Not enough. Not anywhere near enough. 

When Blair licked his palm, sighed out the last of his pleasure with his tongue moist and soft against the sensitive skin of his hand, Jim moaned. 

And _then_ he found the wherewithal to care, because from the corner of his eye he caught a fuschia flash—Mrs. Meissner, Mrs. Meissner's gown was that color, Mrs. Meissner was coming back; and he had to grit his teeth and abandon Blair entirely, and shove his hastily wiped-off but still goddamn _hard_ cock back in his pants, struggling to get the zipper up as fast as he'd yanked it down. 

The difference between 'kinky' and 'stupid' suddenly seemed abundantly clear. Of _course_ it would, afterwards. He blinked rapidly, trying to will the heated flush from his face, and rolled the guilt-bearing napkin into the smallest possible ball before he stuffed it in his pocket. 

He glanced surreptitiously at Blair, hoping for the best. His stomach dropped. 

Blair looked like a recently-enjoyed concubine—sweaty and tumbled; flushed and hot and practically _glowing_ and... 

...and really, really desirable. 

_Fuck_. 

"My _goodness_!" Mrs. Meissner's voice triggered some level of sanity, an automatic guilt-reflex that brought on a wave of embarrassment the likes of which he hadn't felt since that time when he was thirteen and Sally had thought he was at the game and had bustled into his room to dust and caught him stroking his pre-game eagerness into submission. "Are you boys all right? You're not _ill_ , are you?—" 

It was a straw. He grasped at it. "Pudding," he declared solemnly, wondering if the phenomenon of spontaneous combustion had a root cause in people who just blushed too hard. "The pudding—I mean... the _mousse_ ; I don't think it agreed with either one of us, I'm afraid." He gazed squarely into her lined, proper, grandmotherly face, taking a long, hard look at the schism between his life and his _life_ ; praying that the excuse would be enough. 

Two weeks hadn't been nearly enough time to encompass all this. Two _lifetimes_ probably wouldn't be enough. With the usual fuckwhacked nature of Ellison timing, it was that moment, and that instance, that informed him that yes, his own suspicions had been correct—this wasn't a mid-life crisis, it wasn't a fling, it wasn't anything more or less than the simple and staggering truth that he'd finally, finally and really, fallen in love. 

And if it had been required for him to go up to that podium and announce it, he would have. 

No wonder it had all been so easy, no wonder he hadn't been afraid—most crazy people had an easy, unafraid time of it. Without looking, he found Blair's still-trembling hand under the table. There was a napkin clutched in it, touchingly damp. 

"Oh, you _poor things_! I mean, I _know_ that quality and service is never what it used to be, but _this_ —tell me you're not going to let it spoil your fun tonight, Detective—I'd just _hate_ to think we'd have to lose the pleasure of your company just because _somebody_ in the hotel kitchen doesn't know how to scald milk properly..." 

"I'm afraid so," he murmured, fighting against the smile that wanted to struggle free at the crestfallen, disappointed look on Mrs. Meissner's face as well as the collective faces of the entourage that followed her. He tugged at the napkin in Blair's hand until he gave it up, then rolled it into a ball and shoved it in his other pocket. Jim Ellison—Detective, petty thief of despoiled hotel napkins, happy homo. In love. He stood, knowing only that he had to get out before he started laughing. 

He tugged his jacket closed over the various and sundry bulges in his pants, made his regretful apologies and farewells, endured the consoling touch of a flotilla of thin-skinned, perfumed hands, and very, very carefully _didn't_ look at Blair as they made their way through the tables towards the door. Towards freedom. Towards _their_ lives—their _life_ ; together. 

He spared one last glance over his shoulder before he slipped out of the room; just one last glimpse of the spot where he and his libido and his life had all managed to come to a mutual understanding. He zeroed in on it without really meaning to, just in time to hear one of the entourage whisper, her voice faint and puzzled: 

"Why, Myra; look at this—those boys... they didn't even _eat_ their mousse!" 

He ducked through the door quick quick quick, chuckling; and ignored Blair's hushed, whispered questions as he dragged him through a maze of hallways and through the lobby and out into the sweet cold darkness. He didn't stop until they reached the parking lot, until he had Blair pressed hard against the truck again—a touch of subtle sentiment that he truly hoped was appreciated. 

"Am I in trouble?" Blair asked quietly. 

Jim touched his forehead, smoothing the concerned line that had appeared—so soft; such soft, blameless skin there. "You have no fucking idea, Sandburg." 

* * *

Disclaimers: Not mine. Wouldn't it be fun if they were?   
Rating: NC-17, for language and homoerotic content.   
Summary: Smut. 'Nuff said.   
Acknowledgements: This is just a teensy little PWP to welcome Bone back into the fold of real life. Welcome back, Sunbeam!   
Author's Notes: We're firmly back in pop-tart land, here. Written in schmoop-a-rama, this is a 100% angst-free zone. Feels funny. Ack!   
Feedback: and whining and creative flames are welcome at [email removed].   
---


End file.
